Morgan's Rescue (33 page)

     
"
Mi querido
…you must know…" Pilar used the last of her waning strength to reach up and wrap her fingers into the damp cotton of his shirt. She saw the hard set of his jaw, saw the terror and anger in his eyes. "Listen…" she pleaded faintly.

     
Culver looked into her dazed eyes, filled with tears. "What is it?"

     
"Rane…" she forced out the name, feeling the fingers of oblivion pulling at her again, "Promise to take care…"

     
"Dammit, I told you I would. Now stop this, Pilar. You aren't going to die. I want you to hang on. I love you. You can't die. You have everything to live for."

     
Culver loved her.
Though the words were distorted by her semiconscious state, Pilar clung to them, focused on them. She felt her fingers slipping nervelessly from the fabric of his shirt as she tried to hold his attention. "Rane…" she whispered faintly, "your daughter…Promise to raise her,
mi
querido. . . .
"

     
Thunderstruck, Culver stared down at Pilar as she sagged against him, unconscious. A trail of fresh blood gleamed like a dark river across her left breast and arm.
Had he heard right?
Rane was
his
daughter? So much was happening that Culver didn't have time to think clearly about it. He saw the dark shapes of two Dobermans hurtling toward them. Without hesitation, he lifted the revolver and fired off two shots. The dogs yelped and dropped dead to the jungle floor.

     
Holstering his weapon, Culver scooped Pilar into his arms. The helicopter was landing, its whapping blades like thunder pounding through the jungle around them. Bullets whined as Culver sprinted across the clearing, the wind from the blades buffeting him like the blows of a boxer. Any second now the guards would burst into the clearing, firing.

     
As the helicopter touched down, Culver saw the door slide open. Mike Houston had a submachine gun, and the gunner at the door had an M-60 machine gun. Both began firing over Culver's head into the jungle as he ran.
Fifty more feet.
Forty feet.
Thirty.
All he had to do was make it to the helicopter. He dug his toes into the damp jungle floor, smelling the fresh blood from Pilar's wound and the hot oil of the helicopter engine.
Smelling death.

     
His breath tore from him in ragged gulps and his chest burned from exertion as he prayed that they would be allowed to live. His muscles were in spasms of torturous pain, but the anguish in his heart overrode in his physical discomfort. All that was important was Pilar. Just as he reached the helicopter, a spate of bullets peppered it. Ducking, Culver saw a medic just inside the helicopter, his arms outstretched. Mike Houston was on the man's left, the machine gunner on his right. In a supreme effort, Culver lifted Pilar up to the medic.

     
More bullets exploded around him. With a grunt, Culver leapt into the helicopter and rolled heavily onto the metal deck.

     
"Lift off! Lift off!"
Houston
thundered, jerking the door closed.

     
Culver swore violently as the helicopter broke contact with the earth. He was thrown against the bulkhead as the aircraft made erratic maneuvers to escape, but his attention remained focused on Pilar, who lay sprawled on the deck behind him. He saw the paramedic frantically working over her.
Houston
pulled Culver upright and handed him a set of earphones plugged into intercabin communication.

     
"What's her condition?" he demanded.

     
"Critical," Culver rasped, wiping the sweat off his brow.

     
"I'm a trained paramedic,"
Houston
barked. "I'll help Sergeant Ernesto, who's a Peruvian army medic. Just stay out of the way."

     
Culver nodded, feeling helpless. With the two men bent over Pilar, he could see nothing. He sank against the bulkhead as the helicopter strained for higher altitude and safety. Suddenly
a faintness
flowed into him. His muscles were knotted with cramps in his back, legs and arms, and he was shaking badly—shaking from the fear of losing Pilar. As he tipped his head back, he squeezed his eyes shut, her last words haunting him: Rane was his daughter. Oh, God, now it all made sense. Those four beautiful times they'd made love, he hadn't worn any protection. They'd been unplanned moments between violence and danger, and he and Pilar had come together out of a need to reaffirm the life link between them.

     
Rubbing his face savagely, Culver felt hot tears prick the backs of his eyes. The helicopters swaying and bobbing had stopped and flew in a straight, steady line toward Tarapoto. Pilar had become pregnant with his child. With beautiful, ethereal Rane, who looked so much like her
mother.
No wonder the little girl had such light skin and eyes. Now that he thought about it, Culver realized Rane's jaw was shaped exactly like his. Picturing her, he began to see other small things in her face and body that spoke of his indelible stamp. She was going to be much taller than Pilar and strongly built, like the men and women in his family.

     
His lips parted, and he felt tears trickle through the stubble of his beard, squeezing between his fingers, which were pressed hard against his face. Pilar had had to disappear, he realized, once she'd found out she was pregnant with his child. With a jab of pain, he recalled telling her he wasn't ready for a family yet. But in
South America
it was taboo for a woman to be pregnant and unmarried. It was a sin of the worst kind in this culture, and Culver saw more clearly why Pilar had married Fernando—out of safety for her child and herself. Lifting his head, he saw
Houston
holding an IV above Pilar's still form. The tears in his eyes blurred his view of the two men working frantically to save her life.

     
What if Pilar died? Oh, God, no. Not now…

     
Pilar must have thought he would spurn her—refuse to marry her and give their child his name. They had spent three months on that mission—most of it in danger. The sexual attraction between them had been explosive. Pilar hadn't had a chance to get a real grasp of him as a person, Culver realized.

     
The vibration of the helicopter moved through him as it flew swiftly through the night toward the small hospital in Tarapoto. Pilar hadn't known him well enough to believe he sure as hell would have married her and insisted on keeping their child.

     
Culver lifted his face, warm tears streaming from his eyes, no longer caring if anyone saw him. He'd made so many assumptions, all of them negative, and had held his anger against Pilar for all those years.

     
Agony ripped through him at the look of worry in
Houston
's eyes as the other man turned to him.

     
"It isn't good,
Lachlan
. She's lost too much blood. We're doing what we can to staunch it. Didn't they take the bullet out?"

     
"No," he croaked. "I gave her a shot of antibiotics back at the compound. Ramirez was going to let her die if she didn't tell him about the mission."

     
Grimly,
Houston
nodded. "Her blood pressure is very low, and she could go into cardiac arrest any minute. She needs a transfusion.
Surgery."

     
A cry ripped from Culver as he scrambled from his position on the deck of the aircraft. He made a wild grab for
Houston
's arm. "You save her life, you hear me?" he yelled, glaring into the other man's haggard face. "Dammit, save her life!"

     
"P
ilar is in intensive care," Major Mike Houston said tiredly in way of greeting as he gripped Culver's slumped shoulder. "I just talked to the surgeon."

     
Culver roused himself. He'd been sitting in the hospital waiting room for nearly six hours. In the ambulance, he'd sat with Pilar, her small hand swallowed up by his, and at the emergency room door, he'd made the surgeon promise to allow Pilar to hold her medicine bag in her hand. The surgeon had understood, placing the small object in her limp fingers.

     
"She's out?" he croaked, his voice thick with exhaustion.

     
Houston
came around the chair and stood in front of him, hands on his narrow hips. "Yeah, I caught up with Dr. Juarez in the scrub room. He'll be out to see you shortly." The officer smiled a little. "You look like hell,
Lachlan
. Why don't you get a hotel room down the street, take a shower and hit the sack? You can't do anything here for her right now."

     
Scowling, Culver stood. The Special Forces major still wore his tiger-striped fatigues, and darkness showed beneath his eyes.
Houston
had stayed with him in the hospital, and Culver was grateful for the American's care and interest. Right now, he felt damned alone.
Helpless.
He hadn't slept in over sixty hours, and he swayed drunkenly on his feet.

     
"They got a shower facility here?" he demanded.

     
"Yeah, in the surgeon's quarters.
Why?"

     
"Can you get me some clean clothes from somewhere?"

     
Houston
gave him an assessing look. "Yes."

     
Rubbing his bearded jaw, Culver nodded. "Good."

     
"You're staying."
Houston
didn't phrase it as a question; it was a realization. With a shrug, he said, "I'll get my aide, Sergeant Javier, to rustle up some civilian clothes."

     
"Thanks." Culver's vision kept blurring. He had been sitting in that chair sweating for six hours. As badly as he needed sleep, he couldn't rest. His mind raced with thoughts about Pilar, Rane and himself. He so desperately needed to talk to Pilar.

     
"This woman," Houston began awkwardly. "She means a lot to you, doesn't she?"

     
Culver nodded wearily as he began to walk down the polished tile hall toward the surgeon's scrub area,
Houston
falling into step beside him.

     
"I just got off the phone with Perseus. I thought you'd like to know that their aircraft is on its way to the
U.S.
"

     
"Anything on Morgan's condition?"
Culver asked. His feet felt as if they were weighted with cement.

     
"They've got him stabilized. They brought a flight surgeon with them, a woman doctor who works for Perseus. Arrangements have already been made to put Morgan in
Bethesda
Naval
Hospital
in
Maryland
."

     
"Did the flight surgeon say anything about his condition? You saw what he was like—a vegetable, with no memory of anything."

     
Houston
nodded grimly and pursed his lips as they slowed down in front of the surgeon's area. "No…no change, I'm sorry to say."

     
"And he's got a wife and two kids," Culver muttered. "He either has amnesia or they've permanently wiped out his memory.
The poor bastard."

     
Houston
opened the door for him. "I feel for his family."

     
Culver agreed as he walked through the entrance and saw the surgeon changing out of his green operating clothes. Turning, he held out his hand to
Houston
. "Thanks—for everything."

     
Grinning a little, the major gripped his hand and shook it. "I'll be hanging around until things stabilize for you here."